


The Day of the Dinner Party

by squiggyrag



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2018-01-01 00:38:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1038280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squiggyrag/pseuds/squiggyrag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during Act 2.</p><p>After Leandra's death, Sarcastic!Hawke goes through a lot of changes. Isabela wants to both run away and stay to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Day of the Dinner Party

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tamoline](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tamoline/gifts).



TWELVE HOURS BEFORE

              Isabela dreams of the sea. She is sailing impossibly fast, the wind slapping her face red (it hurts, in that good way), all land receding behind her until she’s surrounded by nothing but blue water and blue skies.  She thinks she’s alone on the ship, until she turns and sees Hawke. Hawke, wearing those red robes of hers—only in this dream, they’re much shorter, sleeveless, and Hawke’s cleavage spills out of them--with her leg up on the side of the boat, watching the horizon.  She runs a hand through her dark sea-tossed hair and turns to give Isabela a crooked smile. Gentle waves rock the boat, and Isabela, momentarily raptured by the sight of her lover, is knocked off balance.  Hawke, steady as ever, holds her hand out to Isabela.

              “Isabela…” Hawke says, her voice a throaty whisper. Isabela takes her hand.

              “Isabela…” Hawke says again, this time more annoyed. “Did you forget the fish?”

               Isabela groans, flips over, and sees her lover again, this time with frazzled, ratted morning hair and narrowed eyes. “What?”

               “You did.” Hawke sits up, wrapping her robe—the real one, long, no cleavage, covered arms-- around her tightly.  “You forgot the fish.”

               “Yeah…sure…fish…” Isabela moves over and leans up against Hawke’s back. She closes her eyes, hoping to return to her dream.

                A pillow smacks down on her. “Get. The. Fish.”

                It is easily the least sexy way Isabela has ever been woken up .

 

EIGHT HOURS BEFORE

                Hawke hasn’t been the same since her mother died. A lot of the humor fell out of her when she saw what that man had done to Leandra.  She spends less time at the Hanged Man with Isabela and Varric, and more and more, Isabela can find her down in Lowtown, helping Anders with the patients. Hawke, who had once dismissed healing magic as “for kitten-lovers and saintly types”, practiced so much she can now do the spells herself.  And Isabela gets it—at least as much as she can, because if it was her own mother, she wouldn’t miss a step. She’s trying to be patient and kind and so far, she thinks she’s doing a pretty good job, but some days she just wants to take Hawke, shake her until all that angst falls out her blocked ears, and yell ‘IT WASN’T YOUR FAULT!’

                This is one of the days, no doubt. It is a chilly, rainy day perfectly crafted for staying in bed and recreating the images in her dream. Yet, here Isabela is in the fish market at the docks, getting catcalled by sailors still drunk from the evening before, while Hawke does…? What? When Isabela left, she was furiously cleaning the floor.  While Isabela has to admit the sight of Hawke, leaned over on the floor with her rear in the air, sort of worked for her, that was dwarfed by one really disturbing fact: Hawke was _cleaning._

                “What do you want, wench?” The merchant, a hideous man with a face like a nug, eyes her with suspicion too specific to be impersonal. Isabela feels that if she had offended a man this distinct, she should remember him, but truth be told, she’s offended too many ugly men in her day.

                “Just a fish.” she keeps her voice light, bored.

                “Heh.” His glance skirts over to the chests of fish behind his booth, but he still doesn’t move, except to rest his hand on the dagger on his belt.

                Isabela holds back a snort. As if that would stop her.  The thing that does stop her: Hawke, waiting at her house with that pained expression on her face that is becoming all too familiar. “I have money.”

                This tactic, the one of being honest, never works for her. The merchant takes a step back, grips his dagger with shaking fingers. “How about you just tell me what you want, and we can work something out.”

                “Okay.” Isabela sighs. “How about you give me your biggest, best fish…” The merchant’s eyes still narrow with mistrust, so she pushes on. “And let’s say, a share of your profits for the next week? I’m feeling charitable. Just half of them .”

                The merchant steps forward with an annoying surge of bravado. “A fourth.”

                “Yeah, sure.” She waves him off and holds her hands out. “Just put the fish in my hands and I’ll walk away.”

                She sees the glee on his face as he turns and she has a flash of regret. Now he’s going to have a story about how he outwitted Isabela the Pirate Queen. She envisions him at the tavern, two drinks in, standing up to a crowd of rapt listeners, as he says “Yes, she was putty in my hands. She couldn’t negotiate faster.” Ugh.

                He slaps the fish down in her hands. It’s a beauty, longer than her forearm and so fresh there’s no stench to it. If anything could please Hawke, this would.

                “This will do.” Isabela shrugs. “But just so we’re clear? If you tell anyone how merciful I was today?” She pauses and grins until the merchant’s smug smile slips away. “I _will_ kill you.”

 

TWO HOURS BEFORE

                Isabela is cooking. It’s come to this .  Hawke, genius Hawke who has mastered three schools of magic, outwitted every politician in her way, and never lost a battle…well, everyone has to have flaws. And Hawke cannot cook, it seems.

                “I’m so sorry…” Hawke flutters around Isabela’s side half apologizing, half- peering into the pot. “What…what are you doing there?”

                “I’m making your damn meal for you.” Isabela snaps and moves in front of Hawke’s view, shooing her away. She’s maxed out on domesticity today, but she still has to finish the reduction and roast the vegetables before she even starts on the fish. “And I have no idea why, by the way. So if you want me to finish…Just…shut up, okay?”

                Hawke is silent. Isabela watches the reduction, questions bubbling up inside her as it boils. Is Hawke always going to be like this? Why does Isabela think she can help her, anyway?  Why is she _cooking_ instead of finding ways to get her ship back? And most importantly, why—

                “Why _are_ you?” Hawke asks quietly. “I wouldn’t ask it of you. Gods, not that I mind, Isa, but. I don’t know why you’re putting up with me.”

                “I don’t either.” Isabela shrugs, unable to even look at Hawke, because the thing is: Hawke’s right.  She never _asks_ for anything, but Isabela gives it to her anyway, and that’s what really scares her.   Even the first night they met, she realizes, she asked Hawke for help, and without any hesitation, Hawke showed up, staff in hand, not even giving a shit about the lies Isabela had told to get her there. After the fight was over, Isabela _volunteered_ to go with her.

Is she trying to balance the scales? And the question Isabela hates the most, the cowardly question at the center of her yellow heart—is she doing that in the hope that Hawke will stick around after she realizes who Isabela really is? That day is coming, faster than Isabela wants, and no matter Hawke’s influence on her, she knows she’ll always choose her freedom over not disappointing Hawke. When she thinks about it that way, honestly, there is no way these little things she does matter. In the end, Isabela will be Isabela.

 

ONE HOUR BEFORE

                The meal is ready—all that’s left is the fish, slowly turning over the fire.  The places are set, the house is spotless, Sandal and Bodahn are out for the evening, and still Hawke paces around like a nervous cat.

                Isabela is propped up on the couch, watching Hawke move. “Would you sit down? You’re making me tired.”

                Hawke sighs and sits down next to her. She rests her head on Isabela’s shoulder, but her leg still twitches a bit. “I just can’t shake the feeling that I’ve forgotten something.”

                “I think you’ve forgotten it’s just Carver and Gamlen are coming, not Queen Anora.” Isabela puts her hand on Hawke’s leg to still it.  “Why does this dinner matter so much to you, anyway?”

                “They’re my family.”

                “They’re also giant twats.”

                A small smile crosses Hawke’s face and then vanishes. “I thought you liked Carver.”

                “Well, I _love_ twats.” Isabela moves her hand up Hawke’s thigh and squeezes the top of it, winking down at her. “I just know more fun things to do with them than have an elaborate dinner party .”

                Hawke inhales at the touch and then squints. “Wait, did you just accidentally insinuate that you want to have sex with my brother and uncle?”

                “It’s possible.” Isabela admits, and is warmed by the return of Hawke’s smile. “I didn’t really think that innuendo through, did I?”

                “No.” Hawke turns her face to Isabela’s, moving like she means to kiss her, and then stopping. “They hate me.”

                “No one hates you.” Isabela traces the lines of Hawke’s anxious face. “No one blames you.”

                “I blame me.”  It’s said lightly, almost flippant, but Isabela can feel the weight behind it. Here’s the burden Hawke has been carrying these few weeks—the one that _everyone_ knew she was carrying, but couldn’t take it from her, not until she admitted it to herself.

                Isabela smiles, because now she knows at least one of the answers to her questions. Hawke _will_ get better. “Oh, Hawke.” She shakes her head with mock disappointment. “Well, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised by such a stupid opinion, since you come from a long lineage of huge twats and all.”

                Hawke’s eyes widen in surprise and she laughs _,_ actually _laughs_ and cups Isabela’s face in her hands. “You always know the right thing to say, Isabela. Where did you come from?”

                “The sea.” Isabela smiles and kisses her. Hawke responds, not with the bruising need of the past few weeks, but with a tenderness that is painful.

                 Painful, because today Hawke asked her an easy question, but one day, Hawke will ask her something harder.

                _“Where are you going, Isabela?”_

                 Will she cry? Will she ask with disgust, relief?

                And Isabela’s answer will be the same as it was today: “The sea.”

* * *

 


End file.
